


Anchor

by TheCuteOtaku



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: 6000 Years of Slow Burn (Good Omens), Angel/Demon Relationship, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Crowley Needs a Hug (Good Omens), Feelings, Fluff and Angst, Literal Sleeping Together, M/M, Misunderstandings, Mutual Pining, Napping, Pining, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-03
Updated: 2020-02-03
Packaged: 2021-02-28 03:41:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,420
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22547206
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheCuteOtaku/pseuds/TheCuteOtaku
Summary: The world doesn't end.Crowley just wants to nap, but his mind won't let him. All he wants is a warm place to rest. All he needs is an anchor.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 1
Kudos: 30





	Anchor

The world did not end. Crowley started this morning with his mind running through every possible scenario for how the day would go. He considered all manner of alternate endings. The best case scenario featured him and Aziraphale running away to Alpha Centauri to live amongst the stars. He could see clearly, in his mind’s eye, how beautiful the angel would look burning as brightly (if not brighter) than the very stars Crowley had a hand in creating. Crowley had only ever seen Aziraphale’s true form once (a memory he buries deep inside him and only draws out in his weakest moments). 6000 years together and Crowley had only really known the angel as he is now; crisp white collars, heavy tweed jackets, soft tufts of blond hair. Outside of Crowley himself, he had never known any other ethereal being that did not change their physical forms at least once a millennium. If not for the necessity of the time, than at least for the fashion.

No, Aziraphale has always been Crowley’s one constant. Everything eventually changes. Languages evolve; new words becoming old fashioned before Crowley can give them a try. Churches split apart and form more branches than the trees he used to wrap himself around back in the beginning. Politics, music, movies, pop culture in general. He doesn’t bother to form strong attachments to celebrities anymore. Not after that one time he took a liking to the human singer Elvis Presley, took a nap (just a couple years really) and woke up to find him dead and his music considered a relic of the past.

Nations rise and fall. Mountains give way to valleys that become rivers. A seed spat onto the ground by a passing traveller grows into the biggest tree in the forest; a forest that didn’t exist between one blink of Crowley’s tired eyes to the next. Through it all, weathering the storm (and sometimes causing it) was Aziraphale. An anchor, his beacon of light in the vast nothingness of the universe.

Of course Crowley wanted to run. It’s not that he doesn’t care about the earth (he’s loathed to admit that he cares very much). It’s that, when he really thinks about it, when he thinks about all the things he adores about the earth – they all feature one thing; Aziraphale. When he thinks about a finely aged bottle of merlot, he thinks about the slight curve of the angel’s upturned nose as he takes long sniffs of the wine (“can you detect subtle notes of apricot, my dear boy?”).

When he thinks about his plants (especially the freestanding arrowhead he keeps by his bed) he is reminded of the garden; emerging from the warm ground and being assaulted by sights and smells that he had no true understanding of. All that colour! After the stark white of Heaven, and then the damp greys of Hell, he could not have prepared himself for all that green. He might have buried his head again if it weren’t for that single beacon of light standing right there in the middle.

As if he had been waiting for him.

Aziraphale stood by a great big willow tree, dressed in stark white, the sunlight illuminated green all around him. He had been looking up, his face lit with wonder. Crowley had looked up too, anxiety giving way to curiosity. All around them, butterflies. Small, fragile, white butterflies. They fluttered from tree to tree as if sharing one consciousness. It confused and fascinated Crowley at the time. Why? Why create them? They served no real purpose. It’s not like the Garden of Eden needed any help with pollination. And they lived such devastatingly short lives. It seemed cruel, in Crowley’s eyes. Why create something just for it to die?

Oh, but how his angel laughed. So delighted he was by this simple creature. So delighted was he by every creature inside those walls. Crowley watched as things changed, even in the garden, well before he had any hand in that change. He looked upon each new creation She made and thought again, and again, why?

But still, there was Aziraphale. The only angel posted at the garden to actually talk to Adam. To give him some semblance of company before Eve came about. The only angel to touch and smell and (sometimes) taste the new plants and their first hesitate sprouts of fruit. Crowley was infatuated well before he ever spoke to him. Pathetic excuse for a demon he was.

So, he’s not going to feel guilty for wanting to run. He’s not going to feel shame for staying. Because, maybe he should. Feel shame that is.

_“Friends? We’re not friends.”_

That’s it right? The ending that he didn’t even consider. That the world would not end, that Hell wouldn’t burn him to a crisp. That everything would continue; continue to grow, continue to change. And that Aziraphale would have no reason to tolerate him any longer. Without Heaven or Hell intervening in their lives anymore, there would be no need for an arrangement. No need to meet for sushi in the middle of Soho and discuss strategy. No need for long, sunny afternoons in the park trading quips between swipes of ice cream (Crowley doesn’t even like ice cream, but he does like the little hum Aziraphale makes when presented with good quality vanilla). There would be no reason to visit the angel in the middle of the night (a bottle of red wine in one hand and a box of pastries in the other) when he couldn’t quiet his mind long enough to sleep. Why would Aziraphale choose to waste any more time with him? He’s just a demon after all.

When Crowley designed his apartment, he made sure to let in as much natural light as possible. It would be good for his plants, yes, but good for him too. He never much liked Hell. I mean, one isn’t supposed to. But he particularly dreaded every time he had to report back to head office in person. That’s one thing humans have wrong, Hell isn’t a hot fiery pit of smoke and embers (at least not all of Hell). For the most part, Hell is cold. Cold and damp. It’s what gets to you eventually; how the true torture starts. No matter what you do, no matter how hard you try, you just can’t get warm.

After the world didn’t end, after Aziraphale went back to his shop, Crowley decided to take a nap. He deserved it, he felt. What else was there for him to do? For the first time in centuries, since he fell, he had no one to report back to. He had thought, maybe, Aziraphale would stay for just a bit longer. That maybe they’d finally have that picnic the angel kept harping on about. But, no, Aziraphale left the morning after. Didn’t even stay for a spot of breakfast. So, yes, Crowley takes to his bed. Well, that’s not quite accurate. He starts his nap in his living room, coiled up in snake form and sandwiched between two spider plants. The sun hit his exposed belly just right. For a little while, he was able to forget.

_We’re not friends._

The clouds shifted and a cold shiver ran up his spine. He moved to his office, miracled up a window facing his desk so that sunlight fell perfectly in the centre. Again, he curled up and tried desperately to chase away the lingering chill he’d been carrying around for hours (for days).

_I don’t even like you._

On and on, Crowley chased the sun around his apartment in both human and snake form. He piled every blanket he owned onto his bed. He miracled up a space heater and an electric blanket. He swaddled himself in every knit sweater he owned (he went through a bit of a phase in the late 80s). He could feel the heat penetrating his skin. He felt sweat collecting at his brow. He could barely breathe; the air was so humid. And yet, he still felt cold.

_You’re a demon, Crowley._

Yes. Yes, he was. He was a demon cut-off from Hell. There would be no more clever plots to plan. No more fudged up reports to send to the higherups. No one looking for him. No one listening in. He was alone. The most alone he had ever been since he had been cast away from Heaven.

Crowley curled tighter around himself, and shivered.

**Author's Note:**

> I have yet to read the book. I just finished watching the show and was full of so many feelings (esp after episode 3) that I had to write something really quick. Any corrections are welcome!


End file.
